


worship you

by mortarsmayfall



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, First Time, Frottage, M/M, but like for the both of them, matt doesn't love himself, so foggy makes it his mission to love matt FOR him, they aren't virgins, warning for disordered eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4208910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortarsmayfall/pseuds/mortarsmayfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for a daredevil kinkmeme prompt: "Matt hates himself so much that by now it's become a fact of life for him. "Sky's blue, grass is green, Matt Murdock is an irredeemable sack of shit, the Pope is Catholic."</p>
<p>Someone comes along and sweeps him off his feet. Matt is timid and wary and disbelieving because he thinks he's not worth loving, and this person probably just feels bad for him and is humoring him. Maybe he says yes to everything because he doesn't want to be unnecessarily difficult; maybe he pushes the other person away. He really REALLY likes them but takes that as a sign of weakness.</p>
<p>Eventually the other person finds out and just loves the shit out of him, trying to get him to trust them and believe he's good. </p>
<p>MAKE ME CRY."</p>
<p>Inch by inch, step by step, Matt Murdock gets loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	worship you

The first time Foggy notices something is wrong is when they go to an Italian joint together.

It’s way more expensive than Foggy is used to, but damn it they had _just_ finished an incredibly tricky case law test and Foggy’s got more bills stuffed in his wallet than he’s normally used to, thanks _Mom,_ and a hankering for a good dish of mezzaluna pasta crammed full of enough cheese to clog his arteries five times over. Matt flashes a crooked grin as Foggy bumps against his shoulder, singing his praises of meat sauce and pasta.

“ _Seriously,_ dude, you gotta let this one be on me, I got fat stacks burning a hole in my pocket and I am _really_ feeling that one place on the corner that’s always so packed you need a _reservation_ to get in. C’mon, buddy. Let’s _eat.”_

Foggy thinks he sees an odd look come over Matt’s face but it’s already dark out and Foggy can barely tell Matt’s rolling his eyes at him half the time due to those admittedly cheap drugstore sunglasses, so he doesn’t push it. Besides, Matt’s probably just tired. What with being a nerd who wants to graduate summa cum laude even if it means his ears fall off listening to his textbooks on tape and all.

“Alright,” Matt finally concedes, squeezing Foggy’s arm fondly. “You won me. Let’s go eat.”

Except when Foggy meant _eat_ he meant the kind of chowing down that involves mountains of pasta and garlic bread and more wine than is advisable. Matt frowns and orders a salad, the cheapest one on the menu – and yes, he asked the waiter to list the prices for him. Foggy checked the menu to make sure Matt wasn’t getting ripped off.

_“Dude,”_ Foggy hisses at Matt, leaning over after the waiter has left with a promise to bring a bottle of Merlot, “I appreciate that you didn’t burn me by ordering, like, _lobster_ , but who the fuck orders a _Caesar salad_ at the _best Italian joint in Morningside Heights?_ Have you gone _nuts?”_

Matt shrugs. “I’m not that hungry.”

Foggy squints at him before biting suspiciously into a hunk of garlic bread. “I’m giving you a Look right now, Murdock,” he intones, but decides not to chase the subject. Matt’s stubborn as a mule, he knows that, he _lives_ with the guy. Trying to keep after Matt’s bizarre dietary choices would just result in an argument Foggy just wasn’t interested in having, so he changes the subject and grins when Matt’s eyes crinkle at the edges, a hint at the beginnings of laughter. He notices that Matt barely eats half of the salad.

Foggy pretends not to watch when Matt’s changing his shirt later that night. Doesn’t mention that, despite Matt’s flat stomach and strong shoulders, he can still count the ribs that Matt’s skin is drawn tight over.

Matt turns around. Foggy can see the ridges of his spine as he bends, count every individual vertebrae. He scrubs a palm tiredly over his eyes.

“G’night, Matt.”

“Goodnight, Fog.”

-

Matt never buys new clothes.

Foggy notices this about three quarters of their way through their first year at Columbia. For some reason, Matt is absolutely _allergic_ to buying new clothing. Not even when moths chew holes in his sweaters and his collars go ragged. Foggy looks down and notes that Matt’s shoes are in a similar state, caked with mud and shredded at the edges of the canvas where his pinkie toes would be. 

“Matt,” Foggy begins, and Matt’s thick eyebrows already tent in confusion. Great, he just knows he laid the concern on too thick with just one syllable. _Good going, Nelson._ But it’s too late now; he has to finish what he started. “Do you, uh, do you need to go clothes shopping? Because I could take you clothes shopping. If you need someone to tell you how things look, and, uh. Yeah.”

_Smooth._

Matt’s eyebrows crease and Foggy dies a little inside. Oh god, Matt probably thinks he just got insulted or something. Jesus.

“Am – am I wearing something that doesn’t match?”

“No, Matt, it’s –“ Foggy searches for the right words. “You’ve got holes in some of your clothes and I, uh, I figured you might be in the market for some new stuff. So I’m volunteering to take you shopping!” He nudges Matt a little too hard, trying to alleviate the damage he perceives himself to have done. “It’s what buddies do! Whaddya say?”

Matt’s mouth, so nicely shaped, purses into a thin white line, and Foggy notices his throat move, swallowing. “Foggy, I appreciate your concern,” he replies, in a terse tone, “but my clothes are just fine. They serve their purpose. I don’t need to replace things that still work.”

Foggy doesn’t argue with him, just utters a weak “oh, that’s cool, then,” and promptly books it to – somewhere. Hanging out in the dorm with Matt just became _unbearably_ awkward. He’d rather take his chances with getting nailed in the head with a Frisbee on the commons than sit in there with Matt for any longer.

But – Matt _was_ being kind of a dick about this. And pretty much all of his sweaters were damaged, and – god _damn_ it. Before Foggy knows what he’s doing he _might_ be in an American Apparel and he _might_ have just found the softest, most annoyingly overpriced grey sweater and he _might_ have spent his entire week’s budget on it. _Fucking_ hell. Why was Matt doing this to him.

So here he is pretty much _charging_ his way back into their dorm complex with a fucking American Apparel back in hand (god, he just _knows_ how much of a douche he must look like right now), slams the door open which causes Matt to nearly fall off his bed and his headphones to fly off – that must be how he caught Matt by surprise – and pushes the bag into Matt’s startled hands.

“It’s a sweater,” Foggy pants, trying to regain all the oxygen he lost by _sprinting_ back to the dorms. “It’s grey and it’s from American Apparel and it’s _soft_ and I _threw away the receipt,_ Matt, I threw it away because it was _expensive_ and if you tried to return it I would honestly kick your head clean off your shoulders. Consider it an end-of-year gift. You don’t need to pay me back.”

Matt opens his mouth to say something, shuts it, then tries again. “You know I can’t accept this.”

Foggy throws up his arms. “Consider it an early birthday present, then.”

“Foggy, my birthday’s in _October.”_

“A _really_ early birthday present!”

_“Foggy,”_ Matt groans, exasperated, “I can’t –“

“ _Oh_ yes you can, mister,” Foggy interrupts, wagging a finger he knows Matt can’t see. “I’m wagging my finger at you _very_ vigorously right now, dude, think elderly third-grade schoolteacher vigorously. At least let me give you something if you won’t treat yourself to clothes that aren’t, y’know, beginning to fall apart.”

Matt is completely silent. He works his jaw a couple times before finally speaking, defeated: “Okay, Foggy. I’ll keep the sweater, if it means that much to you.”

"Yeah," Foggy replies, triumphant. "It does."

-

The holidays roll around sooner than expected in Matt and Foggy’s second year. Matt’s clearly planning something, Foggy can tell, mostly because Matt is a poor liar and his idea of “acting natural” is slamming his laptop shut and whistling nonchalantly upon Foggy’s entrance. 

Matt really _does_ lead with his face. Foggy’s somewhat glad that lawyering is only partially theatrics, because Matt’s idea of acting was overblown and landed him at a solid C- at best. Still, though, he goes along with it, partially because Matt looks like a kicked puppy whenever Foggy informs him the truth is written all over his expression. _Matt Murdock, human chalkboard._

Foggy also notices Matt’s wearing the sweater he got for him, and clicks his tongue appreciatively. “So, you like the sweater, then.”

Matt goes _bright fucking red._ That is. Unexpected. “Um. Yeah.”

The next few weeks sprint past and suddenly it’s the day before break. Foggy’s invited Matt home because, well, it’s either that or let Matt rot in an apartment all by his lonesome for an entire month, which he is not inclined to do. The first reason being that he’s Matt’s friend and _friends don’t let friends sit around alone over the holidays._

The second reason being that he is not completely sure Matt will adequately feed himself if Foggy and his clan don’t stand over him and insist that _yes,_ Matt, you _can_ afford to shovel down another helping of casserole, you are bonier than great aunt Maisie (this is only a slight exaggeration. Foggy thinks back to counting Matt’s ribs last year and shivers).

But it’s the night before the drive to Jersey and they’re getting ready for bed and Foggy might just be checking Matt out again, because his body should honestly be fucking illegal, _no man should have an ass like that, c’mon._ He sees Matt’s ribs again and Foggy can only thank his family for the frankly preposterous amounts of food they prepare each break, because a little holiday weight could do Matt some good. _Could make him look less like he’s punishing himself,_ his brain supplies helpfully. Matt is not a small man, and he’s willowy and strong, but his weight is distributed oddly across his frame due to his lackluster diet. Matt keeps in shape, but he doesn’t have the protein in his system to be _healthy,_ and it worries Foggy.

He puts that thought out of his mind. His relatives will clearly be doing the worrying for him over the next month, and God help him, Matt Murdock will be leaving the Nelson family residence _at least_ ten pounds heavier. 

Foggy leans down and reaches under his bed, producing a (somewhat poorly wrapped) box. Don’t ask him why he was presenting a wrapped box to a blind dude, Matt could care less about dramatic reveal, but he traces the edges nervously, feeling where the tape was popping off of the paper. “Matty?”

He’d been calling Matt that for a while, and while Matt didn’t mind, he had told Foggy that the only other person to call him that was his father. Then again, when you share a room with a guy for almost two years, you become about as accustomed to all of his weird habits as one would a family member.

“Mm?” 

“I, um, I got you something. For the holidays. “

Matt snaps to attention, tugging his sleep shirt over his head and bolting for the closet. “So did I! Hang on, lemme give you yours first.” From the closet he produces a box, about medium in size, perfectly wrapped with a glittery bow stuck on the top, and Foggy has to bite his damn lip to keep from yelling _why do you gotta be better than me at gift wrapping?_ at his friend because _fuck,_ Matt can literally upstage any sighted person if he really focused on it. He could probably be as good at painting as a post-cataract Claude Monet and it wouldn’t surprise Foggy. “Go ahead, Fog, open it.”

Matt’s got his dark glasses off for bed but his eyes sparkle and they’re doing that crinkly thing at the corner that Foggy’s beginning to suspect makes his knees turn to jelly and Foggy’s tearing into the box with a huge goofball smile pasted on his face. He takes the top off and _gasps._

“Holy – shit, Matt, are these—“

“Doc Martens, yes, they are.” Matt’s eyes still are _gleaming_ and Foggy’s hands are shaking – he has to put the box down to avoid dropping it. “Marci helped me pick them out. Apparently you never shut up about them around her, so naturally that was the gift I wanted to give you. She was very patient for someone who says Doc Martens are an affront to God and respectable shoemakers everywhere. That’s a direct quote, by the way. She picked out, and I quote, _‘the classiest pair of these godawful shoes I could find.’”_

"Matt, these shoes are, like, $150,” Foggy stammers, sitting down with a _whump_ on his bed. How the hell was Matt affording this? He assumed Matt was, well, hardcore budgeting or something. Matt’s glasses had broken across the bridge sometime over the summer and, rather than buying a new pair like a _reasonable human being,_ he’d fucking taped them back together.

“Hey, I can spare some money for my friend,” Matt chuckles, and Foggy laughs with him, if only to stop himself from asking _Matt, what the fuck?_

He pushes his own gift into Matt’s lap sheepishly. “I didn’t, um, spend quite as much money as you did, but I hope you like what I got you—“

Matt’s tearing the wrapping paper with startling alacrity. The top is off in half a second flat, and Matt’s hands are feeling inside, trying to get a good idea for what was in the box. “Feels like – polyester? What is this?”

“It’s a jacket. A new winter coat, actually, I tried to find one that was nice and warm without making you look like a marshmallow. If you take it out there’s also a case with better glasses in it for you, they have plastic rims on the top but not the bottom, and the shades are a very dark red – almost black. You can only see the red when the light hits them. The guy I bought them from said they’d look good on someone like you – is it weird that I showed him a picture of you? ...Matt?”

He’d been too busy blushing at the floor to look up and notice that Matt’s _crying,_ scrubbing the back of his hand across his eyes, damp with tears. Matt’s face is screwed up and he’s biting his lip and the first thought Foggy has is _holy shit, I’ve done something wrong_ but that’s before Matt _koalas_ on Foggy, verb form, meaning _fucking latches onto Foggy like he’s the last damn eucalyptus tree on the planet_ and honestly this whole thing has gotten kinda weird because he can feel Matt’s face on his neck, mouth open in a silent sob, fingers balled up in Foggy’s Yankees shirt. And Foggy lets Matt cry on him because _what else is he supposed to do,_ but he’s seriously concerned here and he can only rub Matt’s back as the latter’s shoulders tremble. 

“…Matt? Buddy?”

“It’s – I’m – fine,” Matt grits out, sitting back and wiping at his eyes like he’d just been subjected to a record-breaking onion. “Really, Foggy. It’s just – no one’s been that thoughtful when it came to Christmas gifts for me before.”

Foggy can’t help but furrow his brow in consternation at that. What the hell did people _think_ Matt wanted? A copy of the fucking _Miracle Worker_ in braille?

He decides not to ask. Probably, the answer would disgust him.

“Hey,” Foggy says, softly, reaching for some tissues to hand to Matt. “I _like_ being thoughtful and giving you things, especially if it’s Christmas. ‘M sorry that it’s just been me that’s done that since, well, your dad, but know that someone cares about you, okay? I’m your _friend,_ Matt, it’s what I’m here for.”

And Matt, despite the tears dropping down his cheeks, laughs, pulls Foggy in for a hug, and tells him thank you. And for a moment Foggy can hear Matt’s heart drumming away with elation with his ear pressed to Matt’s chest.

Foggy sighs and wraps his arms around Matt’s shoulders, trying not to trace his spine.

-

Matt has a sweet tooth.

It takes _months_ for Foggy to figure this out, because Matt is very – _particular_ about what he eats, and his nose crinkles in mild disdain whenever Foggy tears a Hershey bar open or brings home caramel because it’s _processed_ food, and Foggy rolls his eyes while he chomps away at a candy bar, but Matt can practically _taste_ the chemicals in an average Hershey product. So Foggy figures that yeah, fine, Matt hates sweets, when in fact it was the _opposite._

Foggy notices this when Matt eats fruit. He gets his hands on strawberries every now and then and Foggy may or may not watch him eat them. Matt doesn’t even bother to pull the leaves off and chop them, just bites straight into the flesh and _savors_ it, head rolling back a little and softly smacking the wall behind his bed.

Foggy _tries_ not to watch. He _really does._ But Matt licks his lips and shakes at the carton, disappointed to find that he’d eaten all of the strawberries in one go, and Foggy can’t help but think about the look of _pure bliss_ on Matt’s face when he ate those strawberries. 

Which is how Foggy finds himself in the Teuscher Chocolates store in Rockefeller Center, and this is _probably_ weird because chocolate is a _luxury,_ not a need, damn it, everything he had given Matt up till now was a _necessity,_ something Matt needed to get but couldn’t, probably due to his bullshit Catholic guilt and, like, something about suffering for a greater cause.

Foggy snorts to himself. 

The candy here is _ridiculous,_ so far out of his price range that he can’t really justify buying more than a few, so he goes with a classic – dark chocolate with raspberry filling. And, as the store boasts, the candy is _handcrafted, ooh, flown in every week from Switzerland_ (he literally cannot make this part up) and yeah, Matt’s definitely going to _love_ this, or Foggy’s name wasn’t Franklin. Matt had enough to say about Hershey products manufactured in some plant in Pennsylvania, but Foggy’d been down here with Matt enough times (admittedly to putz around in the Nintendo Center, sue him) for Matt to tilt his head in the general direction of the chocolate store, expression almost spellbound.

(“What – what _is_ that?” Matt had asked, enraptured.)

Which, yeah, the candy might have been expensive but it was _worth_ it (worth what? the tiny voice of reason demanded), worth seeing Matt smile, look a little bit less miserable for just a _little_ bit because there was nothing Foggy loved more than to see that smile, made him want to protect Matt, bundle him up in blankets and wait on him and _maybe_ just—

_Maybe just._ Foggy doesn’t elaborate on that thought further.

He brings the bag home with him, drops it into Matt’s hands and ignores the puzzled expression Matt’s currently fixing him with. “Don’t look at me like that, Murdock, you complain enough about Hershey chocolate I went out and bought _real_ chocolate for us to share. C’mon, take one out. ‘S good, I promise.”

Matt’s got his glasses off for the night and he’s got his face turned toward the parcel in his lap, as if maybe directing his eyes toward it for long enough might burn a hole in it, but finally he caves and extracts a single piece from the bag, turns it over in his fingers. “Are you sure? This is your chocolate—“

“ _Our_ chocolate,” Foggy corrects him, “I paid for it, I decide what we do with it. So it’s our chocolate. Now have some before I _make_ you have some.”

Matt shrugs and pops it into his mouth, breaking it open with his teeth, his jaw working around the chocolate and – honestly, watching this is _glorious._ Foggy could almost pinpoint the moment the raspberry filling hit his tongue because a startled hum issues from Matt, and from around a mouthful of dark raspberry filled chocolate Matt exclaims, “this is incredible!”

“I know, right?” And Foggy has to try not to sound too smug, because Matt’s already reaching for another chocolate, both of them forgetting Foggy technically has a share in it, because the candy’s so _good_ and watching Matt eat it makes Foggy feel warm and Matt’s eyes slip shut – that same expression he gets with the strawberries is back and _maybe_ Foggy’s lizard brain has kicked in and all he can think about is the bit of chocolate stuck to the red curve of Matt’s pretty mouth. Jesus.

And lizard-Foggy is a lot more reckless than regular-human-brain-Foggy, apparently. Before Foggy really knows what he’s doing he’s reaching out for Matt’s mouth with his bare fucking hand, muttering something weak about the chocolate on Matt’s mouth. And Matt’s just _letting him,_ he guesses, because the pad of his thumb connects with Matt’s lower lip without the other man doing something unexpected like, uh, _bite his finger off._

Matt doesn’t do _anything_ save for making a soft, startled noise, one that huffs out against Foggy’s thumb, but his back’s gone ramrod-straight and a tiny part of Foggy’s brain, the rational part that’s rapidly receding to the back of his mind, screams _get the fuck back, Foggy, what are you doing_ but he’s not listening. Which is a tiny problem.

Matt’s lip drags along with Foggy’s thumb, pulled by the motion, and his eyes flutter closed and back open again and _god_ he looks pretty like this, even though Foggy’s got no fucking clue what he’s _doing_ right now. Foggy reaches the corner of Matt’s mouth and Matt’s hand catches Foggy’s wrist, twists it so the palm of his hand is pressed against Matt’s lips in a kiss.

It’s Foggy’s turn to blush, and he realizes the minute tremor in his fingers pressed flush against Matt’s cheek, scratching day-old stubble, and Matt _sighs,_ leaning the side of his face into Foggy’s hand, eyes hooded and wandering around somewhere near Foggy’s mouth. “Foggy.”

“Matt,” Foggy croaks, curses himself for his total lack of courage. God _damn._

But Foggy’s somewhat punch-drunk even though there’s not a drop of liquor in him, looking at Matt’s lips still slightly parted and in a wild moment of fancy he leans over and kisses him chastely (because he doesn’t want to freak Matt out), lips only slightly parted, before pulling away quickly, breathing hard through his nose. Matt still tastes like chocolate and raspberry, dark and rich, and he licks his lips, heart pounding in his ears.

“Sorry, I – sorry,” he stammers, “I didn’t – I should’ve asked permission, really sorry—“

“Wow,” Matt breathes, and he rubs the back of his neck shyly, and _god_ Foggy’s done something wrong again, he can just _tell._ But Matt’s got his hands in Foggy’s shirt collar and presses forward, asking for another, kisses the corner of Foggy’s mouth and hides his face in Foggy’s neck. _“Wow.”_

-

They don’t kiss again for some time.

That doesn’t matter, to Foggy. He still remembers the wet slide of Matt’s mouth that second time he kissed him, the squeak Matt made when Foggy nudged his tongue against his mouth, asking him to part his lips. Still remembers the groggy look on Matt’s face when they finally pulled apart, kiss-bruised and panting. Matt brushing his lips against the back of Foggy’s knuckles once before wobbling away, claiming he needed a nap. Foggy had looked over at Matt huddled under his covers exactly once, imagining for one wild moment that he would slip into the bed alongside him, wrap his arms around Matt and hold him like that, for once.

Matt sometimes has nightmares. 

Foggy could never tell what they were really about but they _sounded_ horrendous because on a bad night Matt would _shout_ in his sleep, either for his father Jack or for something or someone called “Stick” but Foggy never pried because he didn’t want Matt getting upset with him. So on those nights, usually, he ignored it, unsure of what else to do.

That doesn’t happen tonight.

Foggy is woken up by Matt _sobbing,_ likely unconsciously, and he doesn’t need a light to know that Matt’s eyes are swimming with tears, squeezed shut in the throes of a nightmare. He can hear Matt thrashing in the other bed, whimpering, but Matt won’t wake up, and Foggy _worries,_ lying there for at least five more minutes listening to Matt sob brokenly, cry out _Dad, Daddy, I’m so sorry, this is my fault, my fault, my fault_ until Foggy can’t take it anymore and throws off his covers, padding to Matt’s bed.

Matt must feel the bed dip under Foggy’s weight (these twin XL mattresses _really_ aren’t meant for two people) because he freezes up, a sob caught in his throat, and Foggy reaches out a hand, rubbing Matt’s shoulder in the least threatening way possible, till Matt isn’t so much sobbing as he is shaking, minute tremors making the bed quiver. 

“ _Shhh,_ Matty. You were having a nightmare. I’m right here.”

Unconsciously or not, Matt leans his shoulder into Foggy’s (still maddeningly gentle) touch. “I – sorry if I woke you.”

“’S fine. Just wanted to check on how you were. I won’t leave, if you don’t want me to.”

A long, terrifying silence ensues, and for a moment Foggy fears he’s crossed a line. _What are you thinking? Matt’s gonna kick you out of his bed because, y’know, he’s not weird and handsy._

“No, it’s – y-you can stay here, Foggy,” Matt whispers, then adds quietly, “I like it this way.”

_Count your victories,_ Foggy’s brain advises him oh-so-helpfully, _at least Matt knows there’s something wrong._

Matt rolls over, then, to face Foggy, hands folded between the two of them. His sightless eyes examine Foggy, in a way, for a moment, before he curls in closer, his face pressed against Foggy’s shoulder. 

“Foggy?” The voice is muffled against Foggy’s T-shirt.

“Mm?”

“Don’t leave me alone, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I mean it.”

“I _promise,”_ Foggy huffs out a frustrated laugh, rubbing Matt’s back. “What’s gotten into you, Matty?”

Matt doesn’t answer. But he also doesn’t have another nightmare.

Foggy wakes up with his arms wrapped around Matt and his lips on Matt’s forehead.

-

Foggy learns, after they decide to push their beds together, just how _tactile_ Matt is.

Which isn’t a problem by any means of the word – Foggy _likes_ touch. Likes to _be_ touched, and vice versa, but of course being overly touchy was considered uncool, and he’d always chalked Matt’s behavior that night stumbling around on the dark commons to his being drunk. After all, Foggy couldn’t _count_ the amount of times he’d hung onto others for dear life, absolutely wasted, grabbed them around the shoulder and swayed against them. Matt was the same: he turned into a drunk octopus after a few shots, and good luck getting him off of you if he was comfortable.

Foggy had ignored how Matt gripped his elbow a little tighter than usual and, uh, _definitely_ did not think about the heat spot Matt branded him with. Absolutely did not think about Matt’s hand on his arm, maybe his thigh, _god,_ alone in the shower, when it was late and his liquor-addled mind had freedom to wander.

Pushing the beds together is, unsurprisingly, Foggy’s idea. Matt’s screaming nightmares disturbed him, scared him that one night Matt would wake up and decide to do something _drastic,_ or sleepwalk, or, worse to Foggy, cry _alone_ but softly, as to not wake Foggy up. He didn’t need Matt’s so-called _spectacular hearing_ to hear him choke down sobs, ragged breaths rattling the entire bedframe just slightly, all those nights before he called the final straw at full-blown sobbing and held Matt till he slept.

So now they sleep together. Oddly enough, this only makes things _slightly_ weirder than they already are.

He wakes up to find Matt spooning him, one morning.

It’s – kind of _adorable,_ actually, but Foggy would _not_ admit that to Matt’s face, that annoyingly sweet, puppy-dog face than Foggy’s been swallowing the urge to kiss again for a solid month since the chocolate incident. Matt’s face is pressed into his shoulder and when he shifts he can feel the scratch of stubble through his shirt. 

Foggy also notices the _arm_ oh-so-carelessly flung over his waist and realizes he’s trapped, and that if he tries to get out of bed Matt will definitely notice.

He lies there for approximately twenty more minutes, listening to Matt’s soft breathing, before deciding to bite the bullet. He gets up.

Matt, as predicted, wakes up, sleepily evaluates the situation (he can tell he was wrapped around Foggy due to the loss of heat), and promptly falls out of the bed.

“Foggy, I’m _so sorry,_ this was really – _inappropriate_ – of me –“

Matt’s interrupted by Foggy’s laughter.

“Matty. We’re, like, _sleeping together._ It’s no big.”

So Matt shuts up.

It doesn’t stop there, though. Foggy knows Matt, can sense the thrum of nervous energy sitting under Matt’s skin. He taps his foot when he’s restless, and lately he’s doing it a lot. Ever since they slept in the same bed. But Matt’s too polite to say anything when Foggy gets near, even when his knuckles go white gripping his cane, or when his fingers scrape uncomfortably against his bedcovers. 

Eventually, Foggy initiates touch first.

At first, they’re relatively innocuous – a press of a hand against Matt’s forearm, a knee resting against Matt’s if they sit together. Matt still leans into the touch, though, unconsciously, as if he’s never touched a human being before.

(“The last time I remember getting a hug was from my dad,” Matt said.

“Are you kidding? That was, like, a decade ago.”

Matt hadn’t said anything in response.)

Matt, touch-starved precious lamb of God he is, took whatever positive contact he could get, and Foggy was _determined_ to give it to him.

Matt still doesn’t eat unless Foggy prompts him to, which is worrisome, and still isn’t very good at accepting kindnesses. He tries, bless his poor soul, he _tries,_ but some sort of weird Catholic shit makes the guilt cloud his brow. Foggy buys Matt chocolate again and rests his hand on the back of Matt’s neck, stroking his thumb over newly-formed goosebumps, feeling the minute tremor run down Matt’s spine, as if he’d been shocked, and presses their legs together in moments of idleness. They continue sleeping together (though they don’t do anything more than sleep) and Matt lets him kiss his temple to wake him. 

They don’t put a label on whatever they’re doing.

Matt doesn’t embrace Foggy, doesn’t push him away. Rather, he keeps Foggy at arms’ length – eagerly accepts whatever affection Foggy has to give, but as though he’s fasting on it, limiting himself by what he Can and Cannot have. For example:

Can: Touches on the neck, the arm, the knee, sleeping together.

Cannot: Hugging, holding hands, kissing on the mouth, prolonged face touching.

Foggy doesn’t pursue it; Matt is the one with stricter boundaries than him, and he has a right to set them. But he can’t help but notice how Matt continues to get thinner, continues to seek him out more but push him away just as frequently, continues to direct guilty looks at Foggy when Foggy does something nice for him. As if he doesn’t think himself deserving of Nice Things.

So Foggy worries.

And, that night, he confronts Matt about it.

-

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The _hell_ you don’t, Murdock,” is Foggy’s reply. This is going – about as well as Foggy expected. Matt’s got his knees pulled up against his chest protectively, his chin down, and Foggy can’t see his eyes behind his glasses. Matt’s shaking in the minutest way, probably not something Foggy would detect unless the bedframe under Matt was complaining the tiniest bit, because it’s shitty college furniture.

Or because even the _furniture_ is concerned with a one Matt Murdock’s well-being, but that was a situation for the fucking _Ghostbusters,_ not Foggy Nelson.

“Matt.” And Foggy’s reaching out toward him – Matt’s got that kicked puppy look on his mug again and Foggy _hates_ the kicked puppy look, wishes he could do anything to make the one hundred and sixty pounds of sheer nerves known as Matthew Murdock ease up a bit. “You don’t wear warm enough clothes in the dead of winter. You don’t _eat._ And don’t give me that look, I know you can’t see me, okay, but it’s still a _look._ You can be as creeped out as you like that your roommate is admitting to checking you out, but I could see your _ribs,_ Matty. You love to be touched but you never initiate it, at least not when sober.

“It’s like watching you _whip yourself,_ Matt. You’re punishing yourself for no reason that I can see and it’s worrying me.”

Matt doesn’t say anything.

“Just – tell me this. Did you want me to kiss you? I can’t – I can’t keep wondering whether it’s something to do with how I am or whether this is another part of your Catholic guilt trips.”

And Matt takes a good two minutes before he says anything, opening and shutting his mouth dumbly like some kind of mannequin which is – not a good sign, and some part of Foggy starts making plans to go see student services and arrange for a room reassignment or at the very least to transfer out of a room with Matt next fall. But thankfully Matt does figure out how to work his jaw, and suddenly he’s talking a mile a minute which, _woah,_ Foggy was not expecting.

_“Of course I wanted you to kiss me,”_ Matt murmurs, more to his knees than to Foggy. “I had to _convince_ myself to get off of you. Because I didn’t deserve—“ 

This is where Matt shoves his face into his knee and Foggy scrubs a hand across his forehead because, yeah, of course Matt Murdock has been running on a fucking _merit system,_ denying himself physical affection based on some fucking belief that he hadn’t _earned it,_ and god does Foggy want to trespass the crack separating their two beds but he settles for civility, for boundaries, because if there’s one thing Matt deserves right now it’s respect. 

“Matt, I’m telling you this as your best friend but seriously, whoever convinced you that you didn’t deserve to be touched or to eat or to have _new fucking clothes_ can fuck right off into, like, the seventh dimension. Like, skipping dimensions five and six. They’re a fucking asshole.”

Matt laughs at this, a startled little noise that bursts from his mouth and bubbles up, and Foggy can’t help it, can’t help it when Matt looks like this, says “don’t freak out, okay, you tell me to stop any time you want,” and crawls forward all slow and tactful, slides his hands around to the back of Matt’s neck and kisses him again. It’s ungodly slow and Foggy thinks he might just scream but Matt twines his hands around Foggy’s waist and lurches up awkwardly and pretty soon Foggy’s sitting in Matt’s lap.

“Okay, we’re gonna, we’re gonna try and do the light system here because this is a lot to process and if it’s that way for me I can’t imagine how it is for someone who’s down a sense,” Foggy gasps, and that’s definitely Matt’s hand fiddling at the waistband of his pajama bottoms. “Just. Let me know what you want here.”

“Anything you’re willing to give me.”

“Yeah, not good enough. In all the time I have known you I have not been asked to do one thing for Matt Murdock, absurdly handsome blind law student extraordinaire, so you’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that.”

So Matt makes a frustrated noise and says “fuck” a lot and tells him about everything he’s wanted since he was conscious enough to want it, tells him about all the times alone in the shower thinking about Foggy’s hand wrapped around his cock or pulling his hair, asking him to be good for him. Tells him all the times he wished Foggy would fuck him and the way Matt rolls the word around his mouth and off his tongue pings straight down Foggy’s spinal cord and makes him _shudder._ Matt details _everything,_ every shameful thought he’s suppressed with a wavering voice, about how warm and soft that sweater Foggy bought him was, about the chocolate and how Foggy’s finger felt against his mouth.

_“Jesus Christ,”_ Foggy breathes.

-

It’s been about three minutes since the two of them took any proper breaks from making out and Foggy’s head is _swimming_ but Matt’s still going strong as ever, like he hasn’t been touched like this before and Foggy dimly remembers Matt’s koala bear tendencies, how Matt would snuggle up to Foggy like he was the smallest man in the world despite having at least two inches on him. Matt’s hands are wrapped tight around Foggy’s middle and honestly this would be heaven if Foggy were not painfully aware of all the blood currently rushing south and causing a very unfortunate situation in his lap.

“Okay, um.” Foggy manages between kisses. “Mm. Matt. Wanna touch you under your shirt – light?”

Matt, God bless him, looks at Foggy like he isn’t even speaking English before cocking his head. “…Light?” He repeats, uncomprehending.

“Green, yellow, red…?”

“Oh,” Matt grins, and Foggy’s _so fucking charmed_ by the sweet punch-drunk look wiped across Matt’s face, the way his eyelids droop low and he can see those unfairly long lashes, how Matt’s scrabbling to find Foggy’s face. He runs a thumb down the hollow behind Foggy’s ear, across the delicate skin of his throat. “Green, Foggy, I’m – very green right now.”

So Foggy skates fingers up under the hem of Matt’s shirt, against flat muscle, raising goosebumps. Matt gasps into Foggy’s hair and his flank twitches slightly at the lightest of touches, and Matt’s _here_ and he’s Foggy’s and Matt knows it, they both know it, they both knew it from the first time he walked into their dorm room. He eases Matt’s shirt off with a reassurance of “still green” and Matt’s got a hand in Foggy’s lap and _woah._

“Matt – Matty, Matt – _god_ – you don’t have to. Do that. For me.”

“I want to, though,” Matt replies and oh _god,_ Foggy’s _wrecked_ by the sheer earnestness of Matt’s tone. Matt’s eyelids are fluttering so prettily when the first stroke comes that he forgets how to breathe, grinds helplessly against Matt’s hand working him through his fucking pajamas.

“ _God,_ Matt, fuck, how could I have let this go on so long, the _sex_ we could have been having,” Foggy groans, and he flips them over so he’s on top of Matt, some part of him praying that they don’t fall through the crack in their beds. The angle is good, almost too good and he can tell the front of both their pants are damp. He can only guess the room smells like sex now, Matt’s heady scent clouding his head like a drug. At some point during this operation Matt removed his hand and they’re honest to god _frotting_ now, like a pair of teenagers under the bleachers at a high school football game.

“E-enlighten me. On what you were thinking.” Matt grits out after a particularly harsh thrust. Foggy shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock and squeezes himself at the base, trying not to come just at the sound of how fucking trashed Matt sounds.

“I wanna fuck you sometime,” Foggy pants, clawing at Matt’s pajama bottoms till Matt got the message and jerked them down hastily. “Work you open good and slow, like all the times I thought about. You could take it so _well,_ Matty—“ Matt interrupted him with a groan—“I hope you’d _beg_ me for it. For me to fuck you till you _cry,_ till you don’t think you can take much more, I wanna see you when you come, every time, for a long fuckin’ time.” Foggy tries to laugh, a pathetic, breathless noise instead issuing from him. Matt pulls him down and rocks his hips and they both groan, the friction is so fucking good and they’re both _slick_ and Matt’s nearly at his breaking point, there’s that bright red blush that’s crept into his ears and he’s panting. “I wanna buy you a vibe sometime, Matt, you’d be so _good_ with it, you’d love it, Matty. I’d get you one of those remote controlled ones and make you fall apart without even touching you and, and, and I’d tell you what a good boy you were. I’d let you suck my cock, your mouth is so nice and red, I’d mark you up so everyone else who saw you would know someone loved you—“

And Matt’s _gone,_ with a single hard jerk of his hips and a sob he’s finished, spending messily on Foggy and the bedsheets and wraps his hand around Foggy and jerks him till Foggy’s breath hitches in his throat and he follows shortly after. Foggy strokes Matt’s oversensitive dick until Matt whines for him to stop and Foggy snorts in concession, rolling to the bedside table in search of tissues.

“I swear to god, Matt, I have never met a person I’ve felt more compelled to spoil. Also, I’m totally buying you a vibe for Christmas.”

“I feel like that probably qualifies as some form of blasphemy,” Matt tells the ceiling, still winded. “But I’ve no objections.”

-

Things get better, from then on.

Matt finally begins gaining weight. His body isn’t one hundred percent muscle, eventually; he looks healthy, his ribs are far less pronounced and his muscles are soft and supple to touch. He accepts sweets a lot more often, provided they don’t come wrapped in a Hershey or Nestle label. He lets himself be held, even though Foggy can tell he doesn’t consider himself worthy, and Foggy cuddles with him relentlessly, as if afraid Matt will be kicked away like a paper doll by the wind. 

Foggy makes good on the vibrator promise, and they spend an entire weekend in bed and probably annoy the _shit_ out of their neighbors. On the bright side, Foggy now knows what Matt’s eyes rolling into the back of his head looks like, and makes a mental note to try and recreate that particular expression as often as possible. Matt _loves_ sex, loves having it with Foggy, and Foggy definitely feels the same when he sinks a third finger into Matt and watches his toes curl, hears Matt say his name like it's the only word in the entire English language that matters.

Inch by inch, step by step, Matt Murdock gets loved.

And when Matt wakes up in the morning with Foggy’s hand resting on his bare hip, he begins to think maybe that’s not so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> whew, the longest fanfic i've ever written! i started this during my last weeks at high school (i graduated a couple weeks ago) and i had a blast writing it! i hope you guys enjoyed!
> 
> the title of this fic comes from vampire weekend's "worship you".


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